Gloria Romea
by Velocity890
Summary: Arthur Pendragon, the son of the consul, has been hearing disturbing reports of a gladiator who can kill a man with his bare hands. This man is rumored to be the son of the great god Hermes, stunning the empire. Meanwhile, there is talk of a slave revolt against Rome, coming from the heart of Rome herself. Arthur must chose: for Rome or for your family?


Merlin

He remembers nothing from his childhood. Only the great scaled head that yielded itself to him at the tender age of twelve. He remembers, naught of his father, only of Pytho's head as her purple scales shone in the early morning. Her breath smelt of fresh tree groves, which was strange for a dragon. Merlin remembers this. He remembers feeling the fear as his stomach dropped the first time they flew together. He remembers how good it felt to be in the air a few short years later. But, above all of this, he remembers the outrage. The fear and outrage he felt when he found her dead. Just as he became a man, he lost the only being he cared for. Merlin had howled as he collapsed to the ground in front of her copse, the golden arrows of Apollo shining proudly as they protruded from her breast. At that moment he had cast the old gods out. He felt no solace in praying to Jupiter any more. They had killed the one thing her cherished.

Yet, as he was pressed into the dusty ring, not given enough time to cough the blood out of his lungs or get the rock out of his sandal he found himself whispering a prayer to Mars. Merlin was not built for fighting, and the beast that faced him certain was. It was too hot, he couldn't focus. The monster twirled a spear around his fingers, his hands caked in the dried blood of the slaves before him. Merlin stumbled for a second, staring into the sunlight. He could hear nothing over the blood in his ears, but he could see the jeers coming from the spectator's mouths. Rome was a cruel place. Slowly, his labored breath still ringing in his ears he looked to the man, or monster, which stood less than ten feet from him. Merlin dropped his hips into a much more defensive pose, hoping vaguely he could defend any attacks. The gladiator across from him snarled, and curled his upper lip, diving a step forward. On instant, Merlin jolted backwards. The monster laughed, cruel yellow molars showing as he did so.

Merlin flexed his palm around the sword hilt he held. It felt too heavy in his hands. The sun beat down on his neck. The man lunged forward, smacking Merlin's forearm with the blunt side of the spear. It did not split his skin, but he felt the blood vessel's break underneath it. He stumbled backwards, trying to avoid the swipes at his head. Narrowly, out of the corner of his eyes he could see the stone wall approaching. He was running out of time. Desperately, Merlin threw the sword forward. The monster easily smacked it out of his hand with his spear, and it clattered away out of reach. His breath was getting heavier; Merlin could feel the blood rising in the back of his throat. The heat was threatening to melt him. He was cornered. The monster stood over him, his lip curled into what must have been some sort of smile.

"Petty warrior," He growled at Merlin, who pressed his palms against the stone, which was just the relief he needed. The cold seemed to seep into his skin, and pull as a force within him. The monster raised his spear, and painstakingly pressed it against Merlin's bicep. Merlin gritted his teeth, pressing his cheek against the cold stone as the monster leaned closer to him, tilting his head to the side, that grin still plastered to his face. He closed his eyes so he couldn't have to look at the monster Rome had created. The spear tip pierced his skin, and then the muscle, ripping it. Merlin cried out in pain, clenching his teeth together as the blood seeped from the wound, falling to the dusty ground. His blood rushed, and he felt bile rising in the back of his throat. Through a gasped breath Merlin focused on the cool of the stone. If he could just focus he could stop this. He felt it, suddenly, rising from his chest. The one gift Pytho had left him with.

It swirled around him, filling his being and seeping from his gaping mouth. The monster's pressure on the spear seemed to lessen as the tip began to pierce through to the other side of Merlin's arm. Merlin gasped as he felt the spear tip rip from his arm, shredding the skin on its exit. His eyes snapped open and all he could hear was silence. Gripping the hole in his arm with his other hand, the blood slipping from between his fingertips, he watched the life slip from the monster the lay, impaled by his own weapon, one hundred feet away from Merlin on the other side of the arena. Pytho, the dragon murdered by the great god Apollo, had left Merlin with one last gift; magic that belonged only to those who sat on Olympic thrones.

Arthur

"Father you must be reasonable," Arthur, son of the consul, pressed his father back on the cot he lay stretched out on. Uthur, the ruler of Rome, raised a hand as if to stop his son. None the less he leaned by onto the cot, and entered another coughing fit. Arthur sat straight once more, adjusting the tunic on his shoulders. Barely a man of twenty, Arthur was being to feel the weight of the world pressing upon his shoulders. His father was sickly, and Rome's empire was crumbling, and he was expected to be Rome's next consul. Uthur heaved in air for a few moments, before he managed to open his mouth.

"My son, you cannot be expected to run an empire all on your own," Uthur rasped out. Arthur chuckled slightly, taking his father's hand in his. As much as he had fought against his father, the thought of losing him made him cringe. He rubbed his thumb against the back on Uthur's hand.

"I am afraid that expectation has come and gone," Arthur sighed before pulling himself from Uthur's side to walk to the window. Pressing his palms against the stone and bracing himself he watched the city. Rome was alive in the day time, the seven hills of Rome looking back at him as he surveyed the town. From merely a few streets away Arthur could hear the yells and screams of the plebs as they fought to find food. Even as Rome glowed, there was famine from within. There was a time when the rich would never be close enough to hear the poor, but now was a different time. Now was a dangerous time.

Uthur entered another coughing fit and Arthur looked to him. Uthur watched the ceiling, his face contoured into pain. After a few moments of listening to Uthur's rough breaths, the consul spoke.

"Arthur," Uthur started, struggling through another breath, "What do you see?" Arthur looked back to the city. He used to see the glory of Rome; he could feel it coursing through his veins as he touched the stone buildings. The city had always spoken to him. He had always felt as if the city was a close friend, but now as he watched it. He felt no glory in the stone. Arthur only felt the bones of the dead supporting the building he stood in. Arthur curled his lip slightly and pulled his hands from the window. "What do you see?" Uthur repeated, slowly, as if speaking to a child. Arthur knew that tone, and he half expected to feel the string on Uthur's hand against his shoulders.

"I see nothing," Arthur muttered back. Uthur snorted before collapsing back into coughs.

"Do not play me child,"

"I'm not a child!" Arthur snapped back, turning the face his father. Uthur's matching blue eyes connected to Arthur's, and Arthur desperately tried to keep his gaze. Unwillingly he crumpled under his father's stare and turned once more back to the city.

"If you are not a child, then you must be a man. But before me I see only a child." Uthur said, quietly, but as firmly as ever. The consul's son gritted his teeth as he looked at the crumbling stone buildings. "Now, what do you see," Uthur restated.

"I see nothing," Arthur stated once again said, turning away from the window and stalking towards the door. His hand graced the doorknob, he did not want to lose his temper in front of his sickly father.

"Something troubles me child," Uthur interrupted him before he could leave. Arthur turned to look at him, crossing his arms across his chest. The stone felt cold against his calloused feet. He arched an eyebrow, as if to inquire what Uthur was speaking of. Uthur reached to the small stand beside his bed, which was carved out of wood from the north. From places Arthur had never been, but Uthur had had the pleasure of conquering, slaying men left and right. Arthur tried not to feel the thirst for a real battle buzzing in his chest. Uthur struggled for a second before he pulled a piece of parchment from the drawer in it. The consul sat up and offered it to Arthur. Arthur approached slightly, snatching it from his father's hands. Moving to lean against the wall Arthur opened it and read.

His eyes widened as he read, not believing the words scribbled out on the paper. A Carthaginian originated slave was displaying trickery that could only be accounted to the god Hermes himself. Killing men without touching them, healing wounds that should kill men, a true work of the gods. Arthur grunted and rolled it up quickly.

"Father, you cannot possibly believe any of this," He snorted, pressed the paper back into his father's palm. Uthur said nothing for a moment, only watching his son.

"Arthur, you yourself should not question the work of Olympus," Uthur said. Arthur sighed quietly, "Without the God's blessing you would not be standing here today, and I would be left not only without a wife, but also without a son." Uthur whispered, looking to the ceiling and whispering a quiet thank you to the Olympians.

"If you wish to believe that father, then I will begrudgingly agree," Arthur said, rolling his shoulders. His right shoulder ached from a particular rough spar with Leon that morning. Uthur snapped his gaze to Arthur.

"Do not offend the Gods, Arthur Pendragon," Uthur snarled at him, "You will investigate the cause of this letter." Uthur ordered. Arthur held back the groan.

"You cannot be series, this is just child tails! There has not been a child of the God's in hundreds of years!" Arthur frowned as his father, hoping Uthur would laugh and talk of the jest. He did neither and just glared back at Arthur.

"It is safer to know of a child of the god then to make an enemy of one." Arthur turned once more to look to the city, listen to his father speak. Thunder clouds formed in the distance, over the Aventine hill. Lightning crackled, finding its path to earth in a boom that shook the city. Uthur closed his eyes and mumbled another prayer to Jupiter. "You will leave at dawn," Uthur instructed, "If you take a small group it should only be one week's ride to Brundisium. You will take this slave back with you to Rome," Uthur ordered. Arthur listened, not arguing. "If it appears to only be child's talk as you say, kill the boy, we do not want an uprising with the thought of a demigod being the new consul," Arthur nodded as he strode towards the door. He turned once more when he reached it, looking at his father.

"Farewell, father,"

"Do good my son,"

Arthur would have never guessed as he strode down the stone hallway that that would be the last time he would ever see his father again.

Gwaine

Gwaine felt the hoof beats in the ground before he could see them. He ducked, kneeling closer to the damp ground. It was dark, the last rays of sunshine desperately trying to reach him before the whole world was engulfed into darkness. The path sat between him and Percival. They lay in wait, pressing their bodies against the trees. They had been lucky so far, a blessing from above, though Gwaine doubted there was any gods on his side. Maybe only those of who disliked the empire. The two had managed to escape the encampment, after being herded around by men of the Roman Empire for half a year. Years after Gwaine had escaped the horrors of the consul's guard. Marked as a traitor he had ran to outside of the Rome's grip, towards Gaul of the north. None the less, Rome had pulled him back to her, with whispers of wealth and fame.

Now, as he lay pressed against a tree, breathing in the scent of the bark, he felt none such wealth and fame. Percival looked at him, the fleeting sunlight whispering across the larger man's cheeks. Gwaine had met Percival not much more than two moons ago. Percival was an escaped gladiator from Naples, sadly as much of a good fighter Percival was in the ring, he was not as equally matched in stealth. The army had captured him quickly when the man had stumbled into the encampment. Although, Gwaine had gotten quite a chuckle out of the blood that had spewed from one soldier's nose at fault of Percival's fists. Even as they had just begun to know each other, Gwaine and Percival had bonded over their hatred of the Empire's iron fist. Hence leading them to their spots now, listening the hoof beats of an approaching man.

Gwaine craned his neck out from the tree to try and see how many where galloping towards them. He knew the two of them could easily take three or less Roman soldiers, but more than four would be a death wish. As the men began to approach them Gwaine grinned.

_Two. _He mouthed to Percival. Percival did not smile, but his nostril's flared slightly. Gwaine spotted the bead of sweat that dripped down his cheek. This was their only chance. They needed those horses to get to Brundisium. They needed them to get to their only chance. Gwaine ducked back behind the tree and listened as the hoof beats grew nearer and nearer. He rubbed his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath, grazing his fingertips against the sword that lay strapped against his hip. This was their only chance. Waiting another moment he stepped out from the tree. The horses whinned as their were forced to a halt. The two men that sat atop them struggled to keep their horses from spooking.

Gwaine grinned, waving his hands in a simply hello. One the men atop the horses squinted at him.

"Now, what do you think you're doing!" The man squawked, his horse breathing heavily.

"I was merely greeting other fellow men of the road," Gwaine insisted, bowing to the two of them. They wore the blood red of Rome on their backs and in their egos. The two men exchanged glances.

"We are not 'men of the road,'" The man retorted, mocking Gwaine's voice. The other man snickered. "We are soldiers of the Roman army." The soldier shifted in his saddle slightly, sitting up straighter. Gwaine scoffed at his pride, Percival was no longer hidden behind the tree.

"And what would the good soldiers of Rome be doing in their part of the countryside," Gwaine swept his arms in the general direction of the woods, which were growing steadily darker with every moment. The two men glanced around the woods. Gwaine spotted the flash of Percival's sword behind them.

"We're looking for-" The solider did not finish his sentence as his horse pitched forward, whining in pain. The man fell from his saddle, screaming profanities at the horse as it trotted forward a few more steps before wandering to each the leaves on the trees, unmindful of the two inch cut on its hindquarters. Gwaine watched the horse for a moment, ignoring the gurgle that came from the man on the ground as his head split from his shoulder. As he turned back Percival threw the head to the side, cleanly diving towards the other man. In a shock the man tumbled from his horse, which moved to join the other of its kind. Percival had the solider on his knees and disarmed in a matter of seconds. Gwaine yawned; the consul's army sure had gone to the dogs since he had left it. Percival held the sword level to the man's eyeballs. Gwaine moved closer to them, chewing on his finger nails.

"Have you been ordered to hunt two escaped prisoners?" Gwaine asked, looking to the still living man. The warrior's breathing was so heavy Gwaine could hear it from where he stood five feet away. His eyes darted between the fallen comrade's head and the sword in his face. With a grunt Percival cut the section of the man's nose between his eyeballs.

"Answer him," Percival growled.

"Y-yes, we have," The soldier managed to stammer out. Gwaine smiled.

"Good. Kill him," He said. Percival did so without question, pulling his sword from where he had buried it into the man's gut with a sickening sound. Percival wiped the blood off his sword on a nearby tree before moving to stand beside Gwaine. Gwaine sighed quietly, moving to collect the two horses with Percival on his side. They both mounted one before Percival opened his mouth.

"Now what?" Percival asked. The sun was set by now, darkness taking its hold on Rome. Gwaine sat back in his saddle, letting the reins go slack in his hands.

"We ride to Brundisium," He grinned at Percival.

"What could we possibly seek in Brundisium?"

" A way out of Rome, my friend."

Merlin

His tooth ripped from his gum as he tried to tear the stale bread with his teeth alone. He squawked in pain and caught the tooth as it tumbled from his lips. Merlin frowned upon it, the canine tooth stared back. With a groan he threw it aside, and lifted a hand to hold his dirt covered sleeve to the bleeding hole in his gums. Once he felt strongly that it had stopped bleeding he let his hand dropped, watching the blood stained sleeve smudge against the stone he leaned against.

After the incident with the gladiator, the owners of the arena had locked him away in the underground pens where they kept the wild animals, thinking him as if he was as dangerous as one of them. It was dark and stunk of rotting flesh. The animals around him looked as miserable as he felt. The tiger across from him had a nasty festering cut across its beautiful head, and he rarely moved. Merlin could feel that he was dying, and it was horrid. Inside him, he could feel Pytho's magic reaching out to heal the sick animal across him. He rolled onto his side on the dirt, hiding the magic away. He could not waste it on such a futile task of a tiger that was doomed to die.

They believed him a demigod, which Merlin had scoffed at when he had first heard it. They had sent a letter to the consul, and it was rumored that his son rode this way. The men were afraid of his powers, but honestly, he was so miserable to even bother using his magic. He looked to the ceiling and closed his eyes. Merlin knew he could have broken out of the cage ages ago, but he knew naught where he would go. There was nowhere for him to run, for he had ran every which way he could, but Rome always pulled him back. He missed the hills of Anatolia, the rolling fields him and Pytho used to soar over. Where no one was consul, or king, or emperor and everyone was free. But even there Rome's footprint was burned into the countryside. Troy's ruins lay crumbling, burned by the Roman's ancestors. Merlin had heard rumors while he resided near Delphi, that Anatolia had officially been annexed to the Roman Empire. But he refused to believe them.

Merlin stood quickly at the sound of footsteps on the hard packed dirt. The tiger glanced up but still did not move. Down the rows he heard the scamper and scratch of claws as the animals recognized the movement. Merlin crept to the front of his cage, draping his hands through the bars and pressing his forehead against the cold metal. Through the darkness he saw the shape of a girl appear. She looked small, and frightened of the animals. Merlin sighed quietly as she looked frightfully at the lioness beside his cage. But, even her fear of the animals did not match the fear he saw in her eyes when she looked to him. Carefully she extended a cloth to Merlin, soaked in water.

Merlin looked uneasily at the cloth. He had not seen such an act of kindness since he had arrived on the mainland of Rome, captured just outside of Delphi. She was tan, locks of curly hair falling into her eyes. Those eyes, who watched Merlin with such fear. Slowly, Merlin took the cloth from her hands, brushing his fingers over her hand.

"I'm not going to hurt you," He said softly, scrubbing at his face with the cloth. The relief of it against his dirty skin caused him to sigh. It felt wonderful to wipe the dirt from his face. He scrubbed the cloth over the scar on his bicep from the gladiator's spear. Merlin had healed it himself, but as he looked at it now, he saw how the pain of the wound had impacted his ability to heal it. The scar was jagged and white as the marble on which Rome was built. Merlin shook his head and looked back to her. She had stepped back a bit but was still watching him.

"I'm sorry," She said quietly. Merlin tilted his head.

"Sorry for what?"

"I am sorry that they locked you up down here," She glanced towards the tiger behind her, who still did not move from his spot. The wound on its head caused quite the eye sore. Blood had dried over the tiger's pelt and was getting closer to its eyes. Merlin felt a sting of grief, and his magic tugged once more in his gut. "It's quite awful," She added, looking around. Merlin thought he saw water forming in her eyes, but it might have just been a trick of the light. Merlin washed the dirt from the nape of his neck with the cloth.

"You don't need to be sorry, I doubt it was you who locked me up here," Merlin chuckled slightly before carefully extending a hand to her through the bars. "I am Merlin." He wasn't sure anyone knew his name, just referred to him as the demigod. Merlin still found that they thought him a demigod worth a chuckle.

"My name is Guinevere," She took his hand carefully, shaking slowly. Her skin was soft in his hand, but he felt the callouses from years of slavery, "But most people call me Gwen,"

"It is nice to meet you," He said softly, taking his hand back to continue to wash the grime from his skin. She watched him for a little bit as Merlin shrugged the shirt from his shoulders to wash.

"You're clothing is awful, I will bring you more tomorrow," She insisted suddenly. Merlin nodded, doing one last wash over with the cloth before he handed it back to her. The white fabric had turned brown with dirt. Gwen took it without hesitation. "Take care, Merlin," She said before starting off down the hallway, she paused a few yards from Merlin, "The consul's warlord son rides this way to seek you out." She said. Merlin arched an eyebrow.

"What of him?"

"His name is Arthur Pendragon," Gwen looked to her feet, "He will show you no mercy, Merlin," She warned quietly before continuing her walk down the rows of cages. Merlin sat back down on the ground throwing the shirt over his abdomen once more. Rolling onto his stomach he watched the tiger across from him. Lifting its sad eyes to Merlin's gaze the tiger blinked slowly. The magic tugged painfully at his gut.

"_Sanare."_ He whispered, and watched silently as the wound sewed itself back together, knitting the torn flesh quickly and beautifully. Once the magic finished its work the tiger finally found the strength to stand. Merlin swore he saw the beast smile.


End file.
